Mend Them

The world is
Hard and icy, cold-concrete-covered,
Glaring, glass-panelled spires
And streets,
Filled with rushing people,
Like rivers over the stones
Of folk too weak to care about,
So frail, breathe any warmth on them
And they might
      expire
Like a rush of wind out a door
Onto a warm, dark, soft night,
That hangs heavy over the world.

These are the invisible people,
The thieves, the muggers,
The conmen and junkies,
The wretched and the aching and the hurt and saddened.
And all they can do
Is hope one day,
A heart-born fluttering wind won't break
But mend them.